


to be something second guessed

by snakebitehearts



Series: to hit the ball and touch 'em all [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, M/M, Minor Injuries, jack's got a big ole inferiority complex, look i love baseball let me have this, noah is confused
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-05-30 12:11:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15096437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakebitehearts/pseuds/snakebitehearts
Summary: Jack's never liked Noah Hanifin.or, how baseball and boston bring people together.





	to be something second guessed

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: IF YOU ARE OR KNOW SOMEONE MENTIONED IN THIS STORY, PLEASE CLICK AWAY. This is a work of fiction. No slander or anything of the sort is meant by the author. Any true events in this story are public knowledge. The rest is 100% fiction and any truths are a coincidence.
> 
> hello! i was so happy these two qualified as a rarepair you have no idea.
> 
> title is from crash by you me at six.
> 
> unbeta'd. all mistakes are my own.

Jack’s never liked Noah Hanifin. 

They first met at the prospect game. Hanifin struck him out on three pitches. Jack tries not to think of it as the reason McDavid went first to the Mariners. 

(Then again, Jack would never want to play for the fucking Mariners.)

Regardless, Jack doesn’t like Hanifin. He doesn’t like him, his face, his hair, and definitely not his fucking slider. 

It’s why Jack’s content with their current situation. Jack’s playing for his hometown Boston fucking Red Sox. Hanifin is across the country, probably suffering with the San Diego Padres. They almost never play each other. It works well. 

Or, at least it did.

MLB @MLB - 2h

BREAKING: Padres LHP Noah Hanifin traded to the Boston Red Sox for Jackie Bradley Jr. and cash considerations. Clubs have not confirmed. 

-

Hanifin shows up that Thursday. He’s just as smug as Jack remembers. 

(And Jack remembers. Hanifin’s eyes, clear and cold. His expression stayed blank until Jack went down swinging. Jack still seethes if he thinks too long about the smirk that pulled across Hanifin’s face.)

Cora makes a big deal out of introducing him to the club. It’s not every day that a potential Cy Young winner gets traded. Jack can only hope he doesn’t roll his eyes as he tapes up his hand. Judge’s liner nearly took off his fingers in the last series.

“Anyway, Noah, welcome to the club. It’s great having you here,” Jack can hear Cora finish before the locker room dissolves into noise again.

Hanifin’s locker is closer to Jack’s than he’d like. It’s fine. Jack doesn’t have to talk to him. The only thing Jack has to do is play baseball, or at least that’s what his contract says. 

“Hey man, I’m Noah,” He hears, and registers a hand in his peripheral vision. 

“Jack,” He plasters on a fake smile and shakes. 

Hanifin’s smile is still fucking sleazy, but his eyes are warmer than Jack remembers. It’s not bad. 

“Welcome to the Sox,” He says, against his better judgment. He tries not to focus on the way Hanifin’s smile softens a bit.

Jack grabs his bat and heads to start BP. He doesn’t need any more distractions. 

-

They win the next three of Hanifin’s starts. He’s lethal on the mound, striking out everyone in his path. Jack should thank the guy for making his job so much fucking easier. He hasn’t run into the wall in any of Hanifin’s starts. Almost no balls even make it to the warning track.

Instead, he slowly shortens the length at which he keeps Hanifin. It starts by being the one to clap him on the back after wins and inviting him to the bar with the team. Jack doesn’t focus on the muscle underneath his hand. He pretends he can’t see Hanifin flush. Everything is fine.

He invites Hanifin to dinner with him and the rest of the outfield crew. 

The problem is that Jack’s brash. He’s loud, all Boston and no bite. He knows Hanifin used to live in Boston, but Jack’s still overwhelming. But, his other outfielders know how to combat it.

Benny’s all midwestern kindness, not even a bit rough around the edges. His smile is enough to get anyone talking. Mookie has southern charm and his personality is straight up infectious. Jack figures that even if he’s an asshole, those two could soften the blow. 

He’s horribly incorrect.

Don’t get him wrong, Benny and Mookie are great, but it doesn’t really help the current situation.

Hanifin keeps looking at Jack with those fucking puppy dog eyes, his trademark smirk swapped with something much softer. Mookie has kicked Jack like seven times since dinner started. 

Jack got it, thanks. 

Jack can tell he’s making a fool of himself. He can’t shut up. He keeps talking, and talking, and talking and Benny’s watching him with a smug look on his face. Jack wants to tell him off, tell him how he looks when Brock’s around. He ends up talking about how he used to play hockey instead. 

Jack’s red by the time the food comes, both embarrassed and out of breath. He avoids looking at Hanifin for the rest of dinner.

Maybe this whole thing was a mistake.

-

The other shoe drops in late June. 

The All-Star rosters are announced, both Hanifin and Jack making it. The team, since they’re all loveable assholes, decide to take everyone out for drinks to celebrate. 

Jack remembers last year, when they did this, and knows what’s coming. He has two beers and switches to water before it’s even nine.

Hanifin, however, does not do that. 

Jack watches as Hanifin gets progressively drunker. He gets looser, starts slurring his words, and it culminates with him listing into Jack’s side.

He wants to shove him away, wants to put an end to it, but he doesn’t. He subtly shifts so Hanifin can rest his head on Jack’s shoulder. They sit there in comfortable silence, until Chris walks over and wiggles his eyebrows at them.

“New friend, Eichs?” Chris prods, and Jack realizes why he’s never liked pitchers all that much. 

“Okay big guy, let’s get you home,” Jack says, instead of addressing Chris. He gently pushes Hanifin out of the booth and onto his feet. 

He says their goodbyes, getting them out of the bar and into Jack’s car. Hanifin rode in with someone else anyway.

The ride is quiet. Hanifin doesn’t bother messing with the radio, decides to rest his head against the window and stare out at the road. It’s weird, seeing him like this. 

Jack only has Hanifin’s address because they dropped him off the one time after dinner. He remembers clearly enough, figures that Hanifin will tell him if he makes a wrong turn. 

He gets them there safely, bullying Hanifin into his own house. He shuffles off toward his room while Jack tries to figure out where his ibuprofen is. He gets some and a glass of water to give to Hanifin. 

Hanifin’s lying on his bed, still fully dressed, when Jack walks in. He doesn’t stir when Jack sets the water down, so he assumes he’s asleep. He tries to head out.

“Why don’t you like me?” Hanifin asks. Jack freezes, half out the door.

“I don’t not like you,” Jack tries, slowly turning to face Hanifin and leaning against the door frame. 

“I don’t know what I did. I’m sorry, anyway,” Noah sounds miserable. 

Jack’s stomach turns. How does he explain it? 

‘Yeah, sorry I hate you because four years ago you struck me out a couple of times and now I have a huge inferiority complex because of events that happened afterward that I’ve blamed you for until you got to the team.’ 

That would go over well.

“Noah, look…” He starts, but Noah inhales sharply and cuts him off.

“That’s the first time you’ve called me Noah,” He says, his voice weird. 

Jack tries to think of something to say. Awkward minutes pass in uncomfortable silence. Jack opens his mouth but realizes Noah’s fallen asleep. He leaves, only making it to his car before he tries to punch something. 

(It’s the side mirror. He watches as the glass breaks under his fingers. He drives home with blood dripping down his hands. 

“What happened? Noah asks him the next day, grabbing Jack’s hand to look as they watch the game from the dugout. 

“I fell,” He lies, ignoring the blood that seeped through the gauze and focusing on the warmth of Noah’s hand instead. 

Noah fixes him with a look. Jack knows Noah doesn’t believe him. He pulls his hand back, and lets his mind switch back to where McDavid stands at the plate.)

-

The All-Star Game comes quickly enough. They’re in Washington, the humidity making Jack nothing short of miserable. His Nike sticks to his back, his jersey feeling unbearably hot. Noah looks unfazed, weird for someone who spent the first years of their career in California. His hair sticks to his neck where it peeks out of his cap. Jack takes off his own to fan himself with.

They make awkward small talk with the other members of their team before significant others are finally allowed on the field. Matthews complains about somehow falling in love with another Toronto athlete, a forward on the Leafs. McDavid awkwardly talks with the media. 

As much as they press him, they don’t get a name. Jack has a few guesses, though. 

Once families are finally allowed down to the grass, Jack wants to ignore how weird he feels. He tries to not to stare across the field, where Beauvillier stands with Barzal at his side. Everyone remembers their coming out at the beginning of the season. He almost wants to thank them.

As introductions come to an end, he winds up holding Scherzer’s baby girl. She takes advantage of Jack being hatless to pull at his curls. Next to him, Noah pokes at her side and coos at her. They stand there until Scherzer returns from his interview, doing whatever they can to make the baby smile.

They head off the field after that, plans made with Auston and Zach for dinner. He showers in the hotel room, trying to pick out a shirt when his phone vibrates where it's sitting on his bed.

matthews

whipped [image]

Jack stares at the photo for longer than he’s willing to admit. He wants to take in every detail, commit them to memory as if he isn’t already saving the photo to his phone.

He wants to remember the way their hands overlap as they hold on to Brooklyn. The way Noah looks at him like he’s the only one there. His throat feels dry. He doesn’t know how long he stands there, eyes glued to his phone screen. 

Long enough for someone to show up at his door. 

Jack pulls it open, revealing Noah standing there. He’s ready to go, and Jack belatedly realizes he’s only in jeans.

“Bold outfit choice there, bud,” Noah chirps, his smile reaching his eyes. Jack wishes he could say it didn’t make him smile too, but he couldn’t.

“Yeah, yeah. Help me pick out a shirt.”

-

Jack watches the Home Run Derby slumped over the railing of the dugout, Noah with his chin on Jack’s shoulder. Jack hopes he can blame his blush on the heat.

Auston ends up winning, but Jack can only focus on Noah. 

Red Sox @RedSox - 2h

@Jackeichel15 tried teaching @NHanifin how to hit homers. He doesn’t look too interested. [photo]

Jack sees the photo once he’s back in his hotel room. He decides that enough is enough. 

‘’Jack? What are you doing here?” Noah says once he opens his door. He’s lacking a shirt, clad only in pajama pants.

“Do you trust me?” Jack wants to cringe, but it’s out of his hands now.

“More than I should,” Noah’s voice has gone soft and his eyes drop to Jack’s lips. That’s all he needs.

When Jack let himself think about it, he thought Noah was going to be wearing a shirt. It makes it a little awkward, but he works around it.

He surges forward. Noah catches him, his hands wrapping around Jack’s waist before their lips even connect. Jack’s flush against Noah’s chest and—

He’s kissing Noah. He’s kissing the man who may have caused him to go second, the man who’s slider kept him up at night for years.

It’s perfect. His hands have found his way into Noah’s hair and Noah’s leaving bruises on Jack’s hips. 

Noah pulls back, panting into Jack’s open mouth.

“Maybe we should, like, go inside the room,” Noah gets out, but he connects his lips to Jack’s again.

“That’s a good idea.”

They both whip their heads back, staring one Mat Barzal straight in the eye. He smirks at the two of them, before sliding his key card into his own door and opening it.

“Oh, and go National League!” 

He leaves them with a wink. 

Jack turns back to Noah and dissolves into laughter. He rests his head against Noah’s chest. 

“Well, it was a good idea,” Noah says.

Jack pushes Noah into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. 

-

Later, when they both catch their breath, Jack feels vulnerable for the first time since Noah came to Boston. 

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he’s curled up in Noah’s arms. Maybe it’s because McDavid is probably in a nearby hotel room. Who knows. 

(Definitely not Jack, that’s for fucking sure.)

“I’m sorry.”

Noah was running his hand along Jack’s waist, but he pauses once Jack speaks. He waits for Noah to pull away. 

Noah tightens his arms around Jack, instead.

“I know,” Noah drops a kiss to Jack’s head, his face resting in Jack’s hair. 

“I blamed you. For… everything. I thought striking out in the prospect game was the reason I couldn’t go above McDavid. I know it’s stupid, but I couldn’t blame myself. Since the fucking draft, man. It’s all I would think about,” Jack’s chest feels light. 

“Do you still wish you went first?” Noah asks, his voice soft. He’s calm somehow. Jack wishes he could do that.

“And play for the fucking Mariners? No, thank you,” Jack replies.

Noah snorts, a loud honking laugh that he can’t contain. Jack’s heart is full.

“Oh, and I wouldn’t have gotten you, I guess,” He quiets.

He feels Noah smiling against his scalp. Jack turns to his other side so he’s facing him. Noah kisses him, slow and sweet. When he pulls back, Noah’s got a stupid grin on his face. 

Jack smiles, and for the first time in a while, he isn’t thinking about what he could have done. 

-

“Someone got laid last night!” Auston chirps as they set up in the dugout.

Jack can feel his ears flush red. Noah’s not as shy, however, coming over and draping himself over Jack’s back. Jack really doesn’t like the smirk he gets from Beauvillier, who's across the field. 

“Jealous, Matts? How’s Marner, by the way?” Noah drawls, lazy in a way he definitely picked up from California. He wraps loose arms around Jack's waist.

Auston blushes, busying himself with his batting gloves. He sputters for a moment, but eventually turns to head into the clubhouse.

“You’re amazing,” Jack says in awe, looking over his shoulder at Noah.

“I know,” Noah says, looking around before kissing Jack once on the neck.

-

Jack can’t hear anything.

And when he does, it’s just the crack of the bat. 

He can’t hear anything other than it echoing in his ears. When he sees it go over the fence, the fucking green monster, sound floods his ears. 

He hears the crowd, first. Nothing coherent, just yelling.

Then again, he did just hit a walk-off home run to win the World fucking Series.

He doesn’t hear much else as he rounds the bases, even as he’s tackled once he reaches home plate. The noise of the bat hitting the ball still fills his ears. 

He finally gets it, later, when he has his World Series hat on and he can see the trophy coming his way.

Noah’s next to him now, a line of heat alone his side. Jack feels buzzed, though he’s barely drank anything. 

The trophy is in his hands. Noah’s holding it too, his face only inches away. Jack’s ears clear.

“You’re amazing,” Noah yells, laughing.

Jack can’t hold back at that point. He connects his lips to Noah’s. He pulls back after only a second, though the cameras are already on them. 

Benny comes and grabs the trophy from their hands, winking at Jack as he takes off with it. Jack’s face to face with Noah again. Both of them are breathing heavy.

“I know,” Jack whispers, before yanking Noah into another kiss. 

Take that Beauvillier, this is so much cooler. 

-

(Later, as they’re both very drunk and have exchanged sloppy celebratory blow jobs, Jack has a clear head, weirdly enough. 

“What are you thinking?” Noah questions, tucking his chin into the crook of Jack’s neck. 

“Fuck McDavid,” Jack grins, unable to stop himself.

“Fuck McDavid,” Noah affirms, letting his hands wander further down Jack’s torso.

Jack really fucking likes Noah Hanifin.)

**Author's Note:**

> so if you couldn't tell, this will be a series. im about a thousand words in the mat/tito technically prequel, and have a few ideas in mind for aus/mitch. 
> 
> there is... a lot of pitcher slander in this, considering i am one. let the record show that i do love pitchers.  
> feel free to talk to me on tumblr @sorrynotsaros !
> 
> happy rare-pairing! hope you enjoyed!


End file.
